


Anything For You (Nothing, Nothing, Nothing)

by ourloveislegendrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourloveislegendrarry/pseuds/ourloveislegendrarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always wears a long sleeved shirt to sleep. You know this because he has spent every night for the past six months in your bed. You're still not exactly sure how it happened, or why he keeps coming back. All you know is that you like having him there, and if you lose him after you've wanted him for so long, it would break you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything For You (Nothing, Nothing, Nothing)

**Author's Note:**

> I write when I'm upset, so I guess I should thank you.
> 
> But I won't.

He always wears a long sleeved shirt to sleep.

You know this because he has spent every night for the past six weeks in your bed.

You're still not exactly sure how it happened, or why he keeps coming back.

All you know is that you like having him there, and that if you lose him after you've wanted him for so long, it will break you.

...

It was a Monday morning.

You remember because you will never forget.

Potions. You dread Potions. Everyone thinks it's because you have Malfoy for a partner, and they're right. But not for the reason they think.

He's infuriating. Frustrating. Rude. Annoying. Bossy. And you want him so bad it hurts.

He thinks you're inept at Potions. You are, a little bit, so it's okay. He does most of the work, which leaves you with nothing to do but look at him. Or try very hard not to look at him.

Gryffindors were never known for their self-control.

He has long, thin fingers. Delicate, but firm as he grips the knife sideways to crush the belladonna. He does it quickly, fluidly, and then smoothly switches his grip on the knife to chop it. His hair falls into his eyes as he does this, but he ignores it, too concentrated to brush it away. You stop your hand from lifting to tuck it behind his ear more times than you are comfortable admitting.

He reaches over you when he needs something instead of asking you to pass it. He doesn't like speaking to you. He only says what is necessary, and sometimes not even that. You wish he would just ask, because every time he leans over you, you get a noseful of green apples and spices and musk and vanilla. 

Hermione once asked you what amortentia smelled like to you. You said it'd be different, because you weren't with Ginny anymore, and she nodded and let it drop. You didn't mention that, even though you hadn't been around amortentia in years, you'd know exactly what a batch would smell like. 

Green apples and spices and musk and vanilla. 

He had reached over you for his wand, and now he dips it into the potion like an artist would dip a brush into paint. Slowly, carefully, practiced. His strokes are smooth and even. This potion requires 52 strokes clockwise. Your wrist usually gets tired after only about ten. He does not flinch nor falter through all 52, not once.

His sleeves are rolled up, since cotton is not a potion ingredient. 

It is somehow darker than you imagined it would be, even though you knew that it was black. It seems to swirl, to pulse and move and writhe, pulling the skin taut and then releasing it and again. It looks painful. If it is, you wouldn't know it by his face.

The only good thing about Potions is that you have a reason to look at him. And even that isn't such a good thing. You shouldn't look at him. You shouldn't want to. But you do, and you do, so you do. 

He is beautiful. He is the most beautiful like this. Hair falling into his eyes, pouted lips, pink cheeks from the heat of the potion. Everything about him is clean and perfect. No harsh lines, anywhere. No freckles or stray hairs, no laugh lines or birth marks. Nothing but long lashes and smooth, smooth skin that you want to touch. It would be like silk. Softer than silk. And his lips...

You shouldn't think about that.

You spend the next five minutes thinking about that.

He leans back in his seat.

You are the first group finished. As always. You drag your eyes away, because if you don't, he'll catch you.

The only thing that would be more unbearable than wanting Malfoy would be him knowing that you want him.

You even angle yourself away from him on your stool. Rip yourself away. It is almost physically painful. 

You could put your head on the desk and try to sleep, but you already know that sleep won't ever come. Not with him this close. 

For a moment you don't realize that he's spoken to you, and so he has to say it again, softer, and that voice, that almost a whisper, grabs your attention and holds it.

"Potter?"

You look at him. You wish you hadn't.

He's looking at you. He doesn't look at you but he is, right then, and you almost grab his tie and pull his mouth to yours. 

His eyes. _Hiseyeshiseyeshiseyes_. You don't get to see them often because you're never looking at him when he glances in your direction. You always seem to forget how striking they are. Always think, later on when he is nowhere in sight, that you were imagining the catch in your breath and the heat in your cheeks. 

You weren't imagining it. You never were. You'll try to hold onto this thought, but you know in a couple of hours you'll be doubtful again. 

"Potter," he says, and that's the third time, and even though you're looking right at him it's like he knows he doesn't have your full attention.

"Why were you staring at me?"

He does now.

You don't have an answer.

Actually, that's not true. You have a lot of answers. "I wasn't," or "I was looking at Hermione," or "you had something on your face," but none of those find their way to your throat and out of your mouth.

You say nothing. You're staring again. 

He blinks at you. He's trying to figure you out, because that's Malfoy's favorite thing. Picking people apart. Finding out what makes them tick and turning it against them. He is very, very good at it, and that is very, very bad for you.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

You couldn't look away if you wanted to.

You feel a hand brush across your knee. It's an accident—at least, that's what you think.

But then the hand is back, brushing more purposefully across your knee and settling on your forearm.

The shock races up your arm and from there takes two separate paths. One to your heart, the other, your cock.

Merlin, the effect he has on you.

His hand is cold. The kind of cold that makes you want to take his hands between yours and just hold them, rub them until they resemble the temperature of a human again. Maybe that wasn't a thing, though, that kind of cold. Maybe that was just you wanting to hold his hand.

You turn your hand immediately, expecting him to lace his fingers through yours, but instead he's pushing a piece of paper into your palm, and then he's up, grabbing his bag and practically running out of the door.

You frown.

You'd been so sure he wanted to hold hands.

You look down at the small piece of parchment in your hands and unfold it to reveal small, neat handwriting. You hadn't seen him write anything.

_Astronomy tower. Midnight._

...

It could be a trap. It very well could be. You wouldn't put it past him. In fact, it probably is. It makes the most sense for it to be. Otherwise, why would he...?

You go. 

But of course you do.

Not even Lord Voldemort himself could have stopped you.

He's waiting on the ledge of the largest center window when you reach the top of the stairs, and then he looks back at you.

Breath caught. Heart stops. You had forgotten already.

He starts toward you, and you cross the room to meet him halfway.

You meet him, and he touches you. It would be described as innocent to anyone watching, but his hands on your skin could never feel anything less than dangerous. He touches you. Your face, your arms, your hands. Runs his hands through your hair and down your back, runs a thumb across your cheekbones.

And, Merlin, you get to touch him, too.

You tuck his hair behind his ear and find that it doesn't like to stay there. You never stopped to think that that's maybe why he never bothered. You run your hands down his sides and grip his hipbones. You touch the small of his back and the back of his neck. You make a line with your finger right down the middle of him, starting at his forehead and ending at his navel.

You've admittedly never felt silk before, but his skin is better. You know it. 

You save the best for last. You're about to reach up and drag your thumb across his bottom lip when something stops you.

Your thumb is not the first part of you you want to touch his mouth. 

You don't ask. There has been no speaking. Just soft, heavy breathing and the soft ruffle of clothing. You just lean.

You shouldn't have. You should have touched his goddamn mouth with your fingers and not taken this for granted. This was more than you'd ever hoped for. 

He's fast. You don't follow him. You might be able to catch up with him, but...

But.

...

On Tuesday, he ignores you in Potions. You stare at him. You don't stop staring when he finishes the potion, and you don't stop staring when he looks at you.

He doesn't say anything. 

You go to the Astronomy tower and wait for so long that you fall asleep there. 

You wake up sometime in the early hours in the morning, cold and aching and sad. There is only one visible star in the sky, and it sings the same lonely song that you do.

You should have just touched his goddamn lips.

...

Wednesday. Potions. Staring. Mouth. Eyes. Staring. Nothing. Astronomy tower. Nothing. Sleep. Wake. Cold. Alone. Nothing. 

Thursday. Nothing.

Friday. Nothing.

Saturday. Nothing.

Sunday.

...

It's almost been a week, and you're not sure if you can take it anymore. This is the last night, you tell yourself, as you're climbing the steps to the tower. You have said this every night, but this one, this is really the last one. You can't sleep out here any longer. 

Not because you don't like the cold or constantly having a crick in your neck. Those things are unpleasant, but they're bearable.

It's the feeling vulnerable that gets to you.

You may not have to worry about that, though.

Because on Sunday, he's there. Waiting for you. 

You want to touch him again. You hope he lets you touch him again. This time, you will touch his goddamn mouth. 

He says nothing. He takes your hand. It's cold, but so is yours.

He's pulling you back down the stairs and out of the tower.

He could be taking you to Voldemort, you think. He could lead you into a room and you could be ambushed and sacked and killed right there on Hogwarts property.

You don't let go of his hand.

You'd follow him anywhere.

He doesn't take you to Voldemort. He takes you to the Gryffindor common room.

You frown. He's walking you back?

You turn to him, and he motions to the portrait. The Fat Lady is asleep, but when you say the password, the door still swings open. 

Draco is taking your hand again and pulling you through.

You shouldn't be bringing another student into the Gryffindor dorm. You shouldn't be bringing a Slytherin into the Gryffindor dorm. You shouldn't be bringing Malfoy into the Gryffindor dorm.

You step through the portrait after him.

He stops again at the top of the boys' staircase. He's turning back, looking at you, questioning.

He wants to know which is yours.

It's the third on the left. You tell him so. He stops at the third door on the left, and looks at you again.

There should be some hesitation, but there isn't. You open the door. You lead him in, quietly, knowing full well that anyone—including your best friend—could wake up any moment and see him. 

You pull back the curtain to your bed, and he finally has the courtesy to look the least bit embarrassed before he squares his jaw, and toes off his shoes, pushing them under the bed, and then he crawls in, falling into his back over the sheets.

Draco Malfoy is in your bed.

You leave your robe along with your shoes on the floor and scoot in beside him.

It's not a huge bed. It's not even a big bed. It's not meant for two people, but you think that maybe it should be, because he's looking at you and you're face to face and his face is so close. 

You want to kiss him. You want to touch his goddamn mouth.

You don't, because he is a tiny frightened bird, and any sudden movement could scare him away. 

He doesn't touch you. He just looks at you. Blinks up at you with big grey eyes, and your heart pulls painfully.

Long after he has fallen asleep, you are awake, watching him breathe. You're scared you'll wake up tomorrow and this will have all been a dream.

In sleep, he is calm. His breathing is slow and even. There is no hint of a sneer to be found on his face. He doesn't pull you apart with grey grey eyes and his nimble fingers. He just is, and you just are, and you want to touch him but you don't. You could, you know you could without even causing him to stir, but you don't.

Something about him is untouchable.

He's there in the morning, but that doesn't prove anything. You didn't sleep for a second. 

He opens his eyes, and your heart skips a beat. 

Draco Malfoy is in your bed, and he is so beautiful.

You want to kiss him. You don't.

...

When you open the portrait on Monday night to head to the Astronomy Tower, he's already outside. The Fat Lady eyes you both curiously, but says nothing as you pass through.

He's wearing his pajamas this time. You've never seen Malfoy completely barefooted before, and something about it seems strangely intimate. 

He has cold feet. You know this because somehow in the middle of the night you become all entangled, and he's got his leg thrown over yours, foot resting on your bare calf.

He apologizes, softly. It's the first time he's spoken to you since all of this began.

You want to kiss him. You don't.

...

It's been six weeks of this. He meets you outside the portrait and you let him in, take him upstairs. He's always wearing those same long sleeved pajamas, which he tugs uncomfortably at the sleeves of.

You know why, but you're not sure why it matters. You've already seen it, you want to tell him. But you're not sure that would be a comfort.

What is a comfort, is this. It's the only thing that is a comfort. It shouldn't be, but it is the most comfortable thing in your life.

You've moved past the staring. You're allowed to touch again. And you do. Sometimes, you hold him. He presses his back against your chest and you get to tuck your arms under his and your face into his neck. You get to fall asleep to the smell of him and the soft beating of his heart. 

Sometimes, he holds you. He wraps his arms around your waist and throws a leg over yours. His feet are always cold, but you don't mind much anymore. He likes to bury his face into your hair. You don't understand it, but you're not complaining about the warm breath on the back of your neck.

Sometimes, you hold each other. You face one another, noses just brushing, and stare. 

You give him your invisibility cloak sometime around week three. You once thought that that cloak was the most important thing you owned. 

You still think that, but he's the most important thing period.

He stays longer in the mornings now that he can sneak out no matter who's awake.

You'd give him your heart if he'd take it.

You still haven't kissed him.

...

At first, you don't speak at all. It is just quiet touches, innocent dangerous touches, in the dark.

And then, one night, you do.

He asks you about your morning. You ask him about his night.

And you can't stop.

He tells you about his mother. About growing up in a manor, about his backyard, about his private school, about building snowmen with the boys from the neighborhood.

You tell him about the Dursleys. About the cupboard under the stairs. About Dudley and Petunia and Vernon and how you'd named all of the spiders that hung over your bed so they wouldn't scare you as much.

He holds you that night.

You don't talk about the war. You talk about cookies and potions and your friends and his friends and Quidditch. You talk about books he likes and how you don't read, you talk about favorite colors and favorite seasons and favorite body parts.

You talk about death. You talk about fear. You talk about embarrassment and anxiety and torture.

You spend a lot of time holding each other and staring.

...

One night, he asks you if you've ever been in love.

You tell him yes.

...

It's been three months.

You have the curve of his waist memorized.

You have never touched his lips.

...

It was a Monday night.

You remember because you will never forget.

You stopped meeting him at the portrait some weeks ago. You just gave him the password, and he came and crawled into bed with you. Less conspicuous that way.

You were facing the wall, waiting for him, when you heard the curtain being pulled open and the bed dip. He crawled in behind you, and the moment he wrapped his arms around you, you knew something was different.

You maneuver around to face him, and he's bare-chested and blinking at you, and then his hand is on the bare skin of your hip, just up under the hem of your shirt, and you think you come undone in that moment.

You think you do. But you don't. That's not the moment you come undone.

It's not when he pulls your shirt over your head either.

It's when he says, as softly as he said your name what seems like years ago that first time in Potions class, "I'm going to kiss you now," and then he does.

Your noses bump and your lips meet.

You unravel into a pool of Harry at his feet. 

He has your heart. Whether he wants it or not.

...

You talk about the war.

He whispers secrets you're not supposed to know across the pillow, and you want him to shut up, knowing full well he could die for this, but the information is too valuable not to take.

You'll use it to try and save him. You want to save him. You're just not sure if he'll let you.

...

Neither of you sleeps with a shirt on anymore.

You kiss him. A lot.

You want to tell him that you love him.

You don't. 

...

"If you could be anything, what would you be?"

"A better person."

"I thought you were going to say an astronaut."

"You're an asshole."

...

The days are the same. It's as if nothing has changed. You don't speak. You stare.

Almost. Almost the same. Because sometimes, sometimes, when he's sure that no one is looking, he'll smile at you, or he'll take your hand under the table. 

His hands are always cold.

...

You start to think that maybe he needs you as much as you need him.

Maybe he never planned this either. Didn't think about taking your hand, or pressing that note into your palm. Maybe he didn't want to do this either, but just like you, he was helpless to the tide.

There is the moon and the sun and the stars and the earth and there is Draco and Harry.

It's that simple.

...

He is curled behind you like a question mark with a hand on your stomach.

He moves it lower.

_Is this okay?_

You say nothing.

Lower.

_Is this okay?_

You say nothing.

Lower.

_Is this okay?_

You say nothing.

Lower.

You love talking to him, but sometimes, silence is much better.

Well. Almost silence.

You moan.

...

When you started, you couldn't stop. 

You touch him, and he touches you. Everywhere. You stop sleeping with pants. You explore. It had never been something you'd thought about before, but you know now that you are undoubtedly, resolutely gay. For Draco Malfoy.

Oh, if Hermione could see you now.

You suspect she already knows. Ron is as oblivious as ever.

...

You had forgotten completely that there was a war to be fought, and that you were on entirely different sides.

They didn't seem so different when he was under you, whimpering your name.

You remember the war on the nights he doesn't speak. He climbs into bed, face hard and cold and the only thing you can do is hold him, kissing him softly, trying to break through whatever barrier he has thrown up during the day.  

You only see him cry once. It's the day you find out that, undoubtedly, resolutely, Voldemort is coming for you. Draco's family wants him to come home. He doesn't tell you this, but he doesn't need to.

"Stay with me." 

They are not the words that you are supposed to say. All they do is add to his choices, but you say them because he needs to know that it is an option.

"Stay with me. I'll protect you. Please. Please, stay with me."

He's facing away from you, and you run a hand soothingly over his back. He shudders.

His reply comes much later, when you're already inside him, as connected as any two people can be.

"I would do anything for you."

His face is wet when you kiss him.

You almost tell him, then, but...

But.

...

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A good person."

"Me too."

...

He is beautiful. He is the most beautiful like this. Hair falling into his eyes, pouted lips, pink cheeks from the heat of your skin. Everything about him is clean and perfect. No harsh lines, anywhere. No freckles or stray hairs, no laugh lines or birth marks. Nothing but long lashes and smooth, smooth skin that you want to touch. It would be like silk. Softer than silk. And his lips...

You want to touch his goddamn mouth.

...

Green apples and spices and musk and vanilla. 

An all-male London bakery or Draco Malfoy.

You order a scone and leave feeling oddly unsatisfied. 

...

Monday. Potions. Staring. Mouth. Eyes. Staring. Nothing. Sleep. Wake. Cold. Alone. Nothing. 

Tuesday. Nothing.

Wednesday. Nothing.

Thursday. Nothing.

Friday. Nothing.

Saturday. Nothing.

Sunday. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

...

You wake up alone.

You go to Potions.

He has long, thin fingers. Delicate, but firm as he grips the knife sideways to crush the belladonna. He does it quickly, fluidly, and then smoothly switches his grip on the knife to chop it. His hair falls into his eyes as he does this, but he ignores it, too concentrated to brush it away. You stop your hand from lifting to tuck it behind his ear more times than you are comfortable admitting.

You want to kiss him. You don't.

...

It was a morning. Some morning. Maybe a Tuesday.

You don't remember.

...

Draco Malfoy is staring at you.

Or, at least, you thought he was. 

He turns away the second your eyes meet.

He looks upset.

Serves him right, the git.

...

Slytherins have always been known for their self-control.

...

He always wears a long sleeved shirt to sleep.

You know this because he has spent every night for the past six months in your bed.

You're still not exactly sure how it happened, or why he keeps coming back.

All you know is that you like having him there, and that if you lose him after you've wanted him for so long, it would break you.

You whisper this to him one night in the dark, and he doesn't reply. 

...

Your invisibility cloak is lying neatly folded in your trunk, and it looks wrong there.

You don't know how to fold that neatly.

...

He always wears a long sleeved shirt to sleep...

Or is it a short sleeved shirt?

...

There is the moon and the sun and the stars and the earth and there is Draco and Harry.

It's that complicated.

...

"Draco, please, _I love you_ —"

  
_"Obliviate._ "

 

 

_fin._


End file.
